Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  On sped the shaft to where there stood across its baneful way

  Nine fair-shaped brethren, whom whilom one faithful Tuscan wife

  Amid Gylippus’ Arcad house brought forth to light and life:

  Now one of these, e’en where the belt of knitted stitches wrought

  Chafed on the belly, and the clasp the joining edges caught,

  A youth most excellent of frame and clad in glittering gear —

  It pierced his ribs; on yellow sand it stretched him dying there.

  Thereat his brethren, a fierce folk, with grief and rage alight,

  Some draw their swords and some catch up the steel of speedy flight,

  And rush on blind: Laurentum’s ranks, against them swift they go,

  And thick the Trojans from their side the meadows overflow,

  Agyllans and Arcadian men with painted war array;

  And one lust winneth over all with point and edge to play.

  They strip the altars; drifting storm of weapon-shot doth gain

  O’er all the heavens, and ever grows the iron battle-rain.

  The bowls and hearths they bear away: Latinus gets him gone,

  Bearing aback the beaten Gods and troth-plight all undone,

  But other men rein in the car and leap upon the steed,

  And there with naked swords they sit, all ready for the need.

  Messapus, fain to rend the troth, on hostile horse down-bears

  Upon Aulestes, Tuscan king, who kingly raiment wears:

  He fled, but as abackward there away from him he went,

  Came on the altars at his back in hapless tanglement

  Of head and shoulders: thitherward doth hot Messapus fly

  With spear in hand, and from his steed he smites him heavily

  With the great beam amid his prayers, and word withal doth say:

  “He hath it, and the Gods have got a better host today!”

  Therewith to strip his body warm up runs the Italian band;

  But Corynæus from the hearth catches a half-burnt brand,

  And e’en as Ebusus comes up, and stroke in hand doth bear,

  He filleth all his face with flame; out doth his great beard flare,

  And sendeth stink of burning forth: the Trojan followed on

  The wildered man, and with his left grip of his tresses won,

  And, straining hard with weight of knee, to earth he pinned his foe,

  And drave the stark sword through his side.

  See Podalirius go,

  Chasing the shepherd Alsus through the front of weapon-wrack;

  O’er him he hangs with naked sword; but he, with bill swung back,

  Cleaveth the foeman facing him through midmost brow and chin,

  And all about his battle-gear the bloody rain doth win:

  Then iron slumber fell on him, hard rest weighed down his eyes,

  And shut were they for evermore in night that never dies.

  Then good Æneas stretched forth hands all empty of the sword,

  And called bare-headed on his folk, with eager shouted word:

  “Where rush ye on, and whither now doth creeping discord rise?

  Refrain your wrath; the troth is struck; its laws in equal wise

  Are doomed; and ’tis for me alone the battle to endure.

  Nay, let me be! cast fear away; my hand shall make it sure.

  This troth-plight, all these holy things, owe Turnus to my sword.”

  But while his voice was sounding, lo, amidmost of his word,

  A whistling speedy-wingèd shaft unto the hero won;

  Unknown what hand hath sped it forth, what whirlwind bore it on;

  What God, what hap, such glory gave to hands of Rutuli;

  Beneath the weight of things unknown dead doth the honour lie,

  Nor boasted any of the hurt Æneas had that day.

  But Turnus, when he saw the King give back from that array,

  And all the turmoil of the Dukes, with hope his heart grew fain;

  He cried for horse and arms, and leapt aloft to battle-wain,

  And high of heart set on apace, the bridle in his hand;

  And many a brave man there he gave unto the deadly land,

  And rolled o’er wounded men in heaps, and high in car wore down

  The ranks of men; and fleers’ spears from out his hand were thrown:

  E’en as when litten up to war by Hebrus’ chilly flood

  Red Mavors beateth on his shield, and rouseth fightful mood

  Amid the fury of his steeds, who o’er the level lea

  In uttermost hoof-smitten Thrace the south and west outflee.

  And lo, the fellows of the God, the black Fear’s bitter face,

  The Rage of men, the Guile of War anigh him wend apace:

  E’en so amid the battle-field his horses Turnus sped,

  Reeking with sweat: there tramples he the woeful heaps of dead,

  The hurrying hoofs go scattering wide a drift of bloody rain;

  The gore, all blent with sandy dust, is pounded o’er the plain.

  To death he casteth Sthenelus, Pholus, and Thamyris;

  Those twain anigh, but him afar; from far the bane he is

  Of Glaucus and of Lades, sons of Imbrasus, whom he

  In Lycia bred a while agone, and armed them equally

  To fight anigh, or on their steeds the winds to overrun.

  But otherwhere amidst the fight Eumedes fareth on,

  The son of Dolon of old time, most well-renowned in fight,

  And bringing back his father’s name in courage and in might:

  For that was he who while agone the Danaan camp espied,

  And chose Achilles’ car for spoil in his abundant pride:

  But otherwise Tydides paid for such a deed o’erbold,

  And no more had he any hope Achilles’ steeds to hold.

  So Turnus, when adown the lea this warrior he had seen,

  First a light spear he sent in chase across the void between,

  Then stayed his steeds, and leaping down unto the fallen ran,

  And set his foot upon the neck of that scarce-breathing man,

  And from his right hand wrenched the sword and bathed its glittering blade

  Deep in his throat, and therewithal such spoken chiding said:

  “Down, Trojan! measure out the mead, and that Hesperean land

  Thou sought’st in war: such are the gifts that fall unto the hand

  Of those that dare the sword with me; such city-walls they raise!”

  Asbutes wends ‘neath spear-cast then, a fellow of his ways;

  Chloreus, Dares, Thersilochus, and Sybaris, withal;

  Thymoetes, who from rearing horse had hap to catch a fall;

  And e’en as when the breathing forth of Thracian Boreas roars

  O’er deep Ægean, driving on the wave-press to the shores,

  Then wheresoe’er the wind stoops down the clouds flee heaven apace;

  So wheresoe’er cleaves Turnus way all battle giveth place,

  All war-array is turned to wrack: his onrush beareth him,

  And in the breeze that meets his car his tossing crest doth swim.

  This onset of the maddened heart nought Phegeus might abide,

  But cast himself before the steeds, and caught and wrenched aside

  The bit-befoaming mouths of them, the heart-stung hurrying steeds.

  But while he hangeth dragged along, the spear broad-headed speeds

  Unto his shieldless side, and rends the twilinked coat of mail,

  And for the razing of his flesh a little doth avail:

  But he turned round about his shield and at the foemen made,

  And from his naked sword drawn forth sought most well-needed aid;

  When now the axle-tree and wheel, unto fresh speeding won,

  Cast him down headlong unto earth, and Turnus following on,

  Betwixt the lowest of the helm and haubert’s upper lip

  Sheared off his he
ad, and left the trunk upon the sand to slip.

  But while victorious Turnus gives these deaths unto the plain,

  Mnestheus and that Achates leal, Ascanius with the twain,

  Bring great Æneas to the camp all covered with his blood;

  There, propping up his halting steps with spear-shaft long, he stood:

  Mad wroth he is, and strives to pluck the broken reed away,

  And bids them help by any road, the swiftest that they may,

  To cut away the wound with sword, cut to the hiding-place

  Where lies the steel, and send him back to meet the battle’s face.

  Iapis, son of Iasus, by Phoebus best beloved,

  Draws nigh now: Phoebus on a time, by mighty longing moved,

  Was fain to give him gifts of God, his very heavenly craft —

  Foresight, or skill of harp-playing, or mastery of the shaft:

  But he, that from his bed-rid sire the death he yet might stave,

  Would liefer know the might of herbs, and how men heal and save,

  And, speeding of a silent craft, inglorious life would wear.

  Æneas, fretting bitterly, stood leaning on his spear

  Midst a great concourse of the lords, with sad Iulus by,

  Unmoved amid their many tears: the elder, girded high

  In folded gown, in e’en such wise as Pæon erst was dight,

  With hurrying hand speeds many a salve of Phoebus’ herbs of might;

  But all in vain: his right hand woos the arrow-head in vain;

  For nought the teeth of pincers grip the iron of the bane;

  No happy road will Fortune show, no help Apollo yields:

  And grimly terror more and more prevaileth o’er the fields,

  And nigher draws the evil hour: they see the dusty pall

  Spread o’er the heaven; draw horsemen nigh, and shafts begin to fall

  Thick in the midmost of the camp: grim clamour smites the stars,

  The shouts of men, the cries of men that fall in game of Mars.

  Now Mother Venus, sore at heart for her sore-wounded son,

  Plucketh a stalk of dittany from Cretan Ida won,

  That with a downy leaf of grey and purple head doth grow,

  And well enough the mountain-goats the herbage of it know

  What time the winged shaft of man within them clingeth sore.

  This Venus brought, with cloudy cloak her body covered o’er,

  This in the waves of glittering rims she steepeth privily,

  Drugging the cup, and wholesome juice withal there blendeth she,

  Wrought of ambrosia; heal-all too most sweet of heavenly smell.

  So with that stream Iapis old the shaft-wound cherished well

  Unwitting: sudden from the flesh all grievance doth depart,

  And all the blood is staunched at once up from the wound’s deep heart,

  And comes the shaft unto the hand with nought to force it forth,

  And freshly to the king returns his ancient might and worth.

  Then cries Iapis:

  “Loiter ye? arms for the hero then!”

  And he is first against the foe to whet the hearts of men.

  “Lo, not from any help of man, nor from art’s mastery

  These things have happed, nor hath mine hand, Æneas, holpen thee.

  A great God wrought to send thee back great deeds of fame to win.”

  Then, fain of fight, on either side the king his legs shuts in

  With ruddy gold: he loathes delay, and high his war-shaft shakes;

  And then his left side meets the shield, his back the hauberk takes,

  And round Iulus casteth he a steel-clad man’s embrace,

  And saith, but lightly kissing him from midst the helmet’s space:

  “Child, the bare valour learn of me and very earthly toil,

  Good-hap of others; my right hand shall ward thee in the broil

  These days that are, and gain for thee exceeding great rewards;

  But thou, when ripe thine age shall grow, remember well the swords;

  Then as thine heart seeks through the past for kin to show the road,

  Well shall thy sire Æneas stir, thine uncle Hector goad.”

  But when these words are cast abroad, huge through the gate he goes,

  Shaking in hand a mighty spear; then in arrayment close

  Antheus and Mnestheus rush to war: the camp is left behind,

  And all the host flows forth; the fields are blent with dust-cloud blind,

  And, stirred by trample of the feet, the earth’s face trembleth sore.

  But Turnus from a facing mound beheld that coming war.

  The Ausonians looked, and through their hearts swift ran the chilly fear:

  And now before all other men first doth Jaturna hear,

  And know the sound, and, quaking sore, she fleeth back again.

  On comes he, hurrying on the host black o’er the open plain:

  As when a storm cast on the world from heaven asunder rent,

  Wendeth across the middle sea: out! how the dread is sent

  Deep to the field-folks’ boding hearts: — here comes the orchards’ bane,

  Here comes the acres’ utter wrack, the ruin of all the plain!

  The gale that goes before its face brings tidings to the shore:

  So ‘gainst the foe the Trojan Duke led on his hosts of war;

  And gathering in the wedge-array all knit them close around.

  Now hath Thymbræus’ battle-blade the huge Osiris found,

  And Mnestheus slays Archetius, Achates Epulo,

  And Gyas Ufens: yea, the seer Tolumnius lieth low,

  He who was first against the foe to hurl the war-shaft out.

  The cry goes up unto the heaven; the war-tide turns about,

  Dust-cloud of flight the Rutuli raise up across the field:

  But he, the King, thinks scorn of it to smite the backs that yield;

  Nay, those that meet him foot to foot, the wielders of the spear,

  He followeth not: Turnus alone his eyes track everywhere

  Amid the dust-cloud, him alone he crieth unto fight.

  Hereby Jaturna’s manly mind is shaken with affright;

  Metiscus, Turnus’ charioteer, she plucketh from the rein,

  And leaveth him fallen down afar from yoking pole and wain:

  But she mounts up, and with her hand the waving bridle guides,

  The while Metiscus’ voice, and limbs, and war-gear with her bides:

  As when amid a lordling’s house there flits a swallow black,

  On skimming wings she seeks to still her noisy nestlings’ lack,

  And wandering through the lofty halls but little feast doth get,

  Then soundeth through the empty porch, and round the fish-pools wet,

  So is Jaturna borne on wheels amidmost of the foe,

  And flying on in hurrying chase by everything doth go,

  Now here, now there, her brother shows all flushed with victory,

  But still refrains him from the press; far o’er the waste they fly.

  No less Æneas picks his way amid the winding road,

  Tracking the man, and through the rout cries ever high and loud;

  But e’en as oftentimes as he his foeman caught with eye,

  And ‘gainst the flight of wingèd steeds his running feet would try,

  So oft the speedy wain of war Jaturna turned aside.

  Ah, what to do? In vain he went, borne on a shifting tide,

  While diverse cares to clashing ways the soul within him drave.

  But lo, Messapus, speedy-light, who chanced in hand to have

  Two light and limber shafts of tree, each with its iron head,

  Now whirling one, a shot well aimed unto the hero sped:

  Ænesis stayed, and gathered him behind his shielding-gear,

  And sank upon his knee; no less the eager-driven spear

  Smote on his helm, and shore away the topmost of his
crest

  Then verily his wrath arose; by all that guile oppressed,

  When he beheld the steeds and car far from his battle borne,

  He bade Jove witness, and the hearths of troth-plight wronged and torn:

  He breaks at last amidst of them with Mars to help him on,

  And fearful speedeth work of death wherein he spareth none,

  And casteth every rein aside that held his anger in.

  What God shall tell me all the woe, what God the song shall win

  Of shifting death and Dukes undone, and all those many dead,

  By Turnus and by him of Troy about the fight-field spread?

  O Jupiter, was this thy will, that nations doomed to live

  In peace hereafter, on that day in such a broil should strive?

  Rutulian Sucro was the first that Trojan onset stayed;

  Æneas met him, and forsooth no long delay he made,

  But smote his side, and through his ribs and fencing of the breast

  Drave on his bitter naked sword where way was easiest.

  Turnus afoot met Amycus, cast down from off his horse,

  His brother, swift Diores, too: the first amidst his course

  The long spear smote, the sword the last; the heads of both the twain

  He hangeth up and beareth on shedding a bloody rain.

  Talon and Tanais therewith, Cethegus stout to do,

  All three at once the Trojan sped, and sad Onytes slew,

  Whom to the name of Echion Peridia’s womb did yield.

  Then Turnus slew the brethren sent from Phoebus’ Lycian field:

  Menates, too, of Arcady, who loathed the war in vain;

  By fruitful fishy Lerna’s flood was once his life and gain,

  And unrich house, and nought he knew of mighty men’s abode,

  And hired for a price of men the earth his father sowed.

  As when two fires, that on a while are sped from diverse ways,

  Run through the dry and tinder wood, and crackling twigs of bays;

  As when from off the mountain-tops two hurrying rivers speed,

  And foaming, roaring, as they rush, drive down to ocean’s mead,

  And each one wastes his proper road; no slothfuller than these,

  Æneas, Turnus, fare afield; swell up the anger-seas

  In both their hearts; torn are their breasts that know not how to yield,

  In speeding of the wounding-craft their utter might they wield.

  Murranus, as his sires of sires and ancient name he sings,

  And boasts his blood come far adown the line of Latin kings,

  Æneas, with a mighty rock and whirlwind of a stone,